


nobody said

by deviltowerstar (sealioncaves)



Category: Archive 81 (Podcast), The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), basically: i love payphone. i love tma. i mash them both together, other personal headcanons make appearances, white hair martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24920542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sealioncaves/pseuds/deviltowerstar
Summary: "There might be a way for us to... Protect ourselves.""Out with it, please." Martin huffs, placing a hand over Jon’s knee and lightly squeezing, impatiently. "If it will make us safe, actually safe, it's worth it."Jon sighs."It involves a payphone."(or: Martin strikes a deal with Payphone.)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 23
Kudos: 160





	nobody said

**Author's Note:**

> this was inspired by [this lovely drawing by ehlihr](https://ehlihr.tumblr.com/post/618498454865526784/jon-talking-to-payphone-from-a81), and [this lovely drawing by tobivos](https://tobivos.tumblr.com/post/619176227462348800/ive-been-listening-to-archive-81-and-im-in-love-w). i just thought these were wonderful ideas that could be expanded upon more, and as nobody else was doing it, i took it upon myself. 
> 
> by this i mean, i picked up my phone at 4 am, blacked out for a few hours, then woke up and entered a fugue state and when i came back to i had written the entirety of this. please excuse the ominous phrases, and the halfassed ritual. i tried. anyway! hope you enjoy!

"Y'know, I... I know, I know we're supposedly... Far away enough for none of, none of that stuff to reach us, but I–" Martin chuckles, nervously. "I'm, I'm worried?"

Jon tilts his head slightly to the side. "Worried about...?"

"Just, like, you know," he pauses, waves his hands around a little, and sighs exaggeratedly when Jon raises an eyebrow at him. "Just, someone... One of those people who want to kill us, who want to kill _you_ , tracking us down, finding us, jumping out of the bushes when we go out for a walk, or busting into the house; or, or– bloody _Jonah Magnus_ , watching us from, like, a slightly eye shaped dent on the wall or _something_ and just waiting to make his next move, whatever it is, I–" Martin lets himself fall to the couch, next to where Jon is. "I'm... I'm worried. Just worried."

Jon hums in understanding, though as he raises a hand to gently pat Martin's back and opens his mouth to begin to sputter empty comforts, a thought occurs to him that causes him to stop mid-motion.

"I, um."

He bites the inside of his cheek. Noticing the shift, Martin turns his gaze back towards him, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

"You, um?" Martin presses, giving him a light nudge with his elbow.

"I might... I think I..." It's a struggle, somehow, putting the words together. Like he shouldn't say it out loud, though he wants to. "There might be a way for us to... Protect ourselves."

"What do you mean...?"

"There was this... This statement," Jon mumbles, tugging on a lock of hair that's fallen loose from behind his ear. "It's... It describes a manner in which we could possibly ask someone– an... An expert, I suppose– for help in... Keeping ourselves safe. Away from... You know."

"Out with it, please." Martin huffs, placing a hand over Jon’s knee and lightly squeezing, impatiently. "If it will make us safe, actually safe, it's worth it."

Jon sighs.

"It involves a payphone."

* * *

"Right, um," Martin scrambles to pull out the note Jon made for him, which he's been fiddling with so much, it's already begun to tear slightly at the edges. "Um, okay, I... Nobody's used the payphone in an hour, or, um, days, probably, I'm most likely the only person here who uses this thing–" he crosses the items off the list. "I'm already inside, um, thoroughly... Hygenised the phone..." He sighs. "God, right. Can't... Delay the inevitable!"

With a deep inhale, after double and triple checking the instructions on his note, Martin begins to push the numbers in, counting the amount of eights pressed under his breath as he does so, slowly and carefully.

And, squeezing his eyes shut tight, he presses his tongue to the receiver of the phone.

"Oh god, ew, ew, ew," he retches a little at the taste of dust and plastic and probably years-old spit. "Gross, gross, _gross–_ "

There's a split second where nothing happens, where, though he's still complaining, still disgusted and still scratching at his tongue, regretting not bringing along mouthwash as instructed, the phone just hangs on with its dialling noise, and Martin considers that it hasn't worked. That he'll just be greeted with a pleasant voice informing him that he's called an invalid number, and that he'll just end up having to hike all the way back to their cabin to inform Jon that unfortunately, the one singular functional payphone in the village isn't fit for this sort of supernatural activity, and that they have absolutely no way of protecting themselves further, but–

A strange, musical tone plays as the call actually gets picked up, causing Martin to gasp, as he fumbles to adjust the phone, to place it back to his ear.

"Hello? I–"

" _For English, press 1_ ," says the voice on the other end of the line, pleasant and slightly tinny and robotic.

He does not hesitate to obey its order, just as it shifts its tone to screech a guttural, monstrous sounding phrase. His button press interrupts it midway, and as the phone pauses for a second to process, he considers the thought that he should perhaps not rush too much.

" _It has been noticed that you are recording this conversation."_

Martin jumps a little at the sudden noise, but then frowns. "I– what? I'm not–" he starts to argue, but just then he catches a glimpse of something rectangular and black at his feet, tape spinning happily along. "Oh, god, I– I'm so sorry, they– they do that sometimes, I don't–"

" _This has been deemed permissible,"_ the voice cuts him off, cold. " _Please state your full name."_

Off to a great start already.

"M-Martin Blackwood," he says, feebly, nudging the tape recorder with the tip of his shoe, disapprovingly. They will have to talk about this later.

" _Hello_ , M-Martin Blackwood," it replays his own voice back to him, and he cringes at his own stupid stammer. " _Please state the issue, or issues that you would like resolved."_

"Right. Right, I, um," he'd practiced this, he _had_. Spent the hour watching the payphone to make sure nobody used it planning this, but yet. "I… I need something, anything, just… a sure way to keep me and Jon– um, Jonathan Sims, m-my, my, um–"

" _The system is aware of the status of your relationship with the Archivist."_ The voice interrupts him, unamused, which still somehow causes him to flush.

"O… okay, um, well, I… I need something that'll keep me and Jon safe from, from Elias, or, Jonah Magnus, I guess, and those hunter people, and… and, probably the thing that took Sasha? Or–"

" _You require protection. Would a ritual to ward the building or structure in which you live be sufficient?"_

Martin pauses. "I– sorry, I don't… I don't mean to be picky, but, I was maybe looking for something that extends… beyond our house, I guess? It'd be nice if we could be safe _outside_ as well, um. Is there anything like that, that you could–"

" _Understood. To be clear, you require: a ward of protection to keep both you and your significant other safe from your enemies, and the harm they may plan to inflict."_

“Um…” He chews on his lip as he thinks. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds… good.”

_“Wonderful. That can be arranged.”_ A sigh of relief escapes his lips as he hears this. _“Before we proceed further, it is understood that any guilt suffered due to the consequences of this agreement will be the sole responsibility of you and your significant other?”_

The relief catches in his throat. “G-guilt?” He manages to get out, nervously.

_“The guilt would be strictly emotional.”_

That doesn’t do much in the way of reassuring him. Jon did warn him about this, how this entity functioned and how it was most definitely aligned with one of the fears, most definitely feeding off some sort of misery even though it did offer helpful services– but it’s by far the best option they have at the moment.

Martin closes his eyes. “Yeah, that’ll… I can live with that.”

_“Wonderful. Press 1 to demonstrate you understand.”_

With a heavy hand, he presses the button.

_“Much appreciated. Would you like to discuss payment plans?”_

“I don’t… I don’t see why not–”

_“For our assistance, and information on a ritual that will grant protection for you and your significant other, you are required to complete a short quiz. You will also be asked to agree to a simple bargain.”_

“Yeah, okay. And, um–”

Uncaringly, the payphone steamrolls over him again. _“Wonderful. Please be aware that the information that is collected may be used for any purpose that is deemed necessary.”_ Martin presses his lips together. If he can gather a guess, he’d suppose this system is in some way aligned with the Eye, but he doesn’t have much time to ponder on this further, as it continues: _“Also, do not lie. If you lie it will be known to the system, and we will require you to cut off the fingers of your left hand and leave them on the floor of this payphone. Please press 1 to demonstrate that you understand.”_

Martin freezes. “E-excuse me, _what?_ ”

_“If you lie, it will be known to the system, and we will require you to cut off the fingers of your left hand and leave them on the floor of this payphone,”_ It repeats, unhelpfully. When Jon explained this to him earlier, the body part he’d mentioned that’d be required to be chopped off was a _foot_. This sounded _significantly_ worse to him. _“Please press 1 to demonstrate that you understand.”_

Well, he was far too deep into this to back away now, wasn’t he? He shakes his head, and punches the button in.

_“Wonderful,_ ” the payphone chimes, in its same neutral tone, though Martin wouldn’t hesitate to call it smug at this point. _“Let’s begin. Question 1: What is your astrological sign?”_

He blinks, then frowns. Not exactly the sort of question he was particularly expecting, but easy enough to find an answer to: “I, er… Sun sign? Cancer. Do you… I don’t really, like, have the rest of my star chart memorised–”

_“Question 2,”_ it carries on, seemingly satisfied, seemingly fond of not letting him finish sentences. _“Are you happy with your current hair colour?”_

“Kind of?” he turns to the glass of the cabinet, where, though fogged up and dirty, he can still see somewhat of a reflection in this light. “It’s… the white is fine, actually,” he confesses, reaching for a lock with his free hand. “I know, I know, I’m probably supposed to be upset because it’s a whole… Lonely thing, but it’s– I’m beginning to like it, I think.”

_“Question 3: Are you right handed?”_

He scoffs a small laugh. “Oh, erm, no. Tried to be, though, when I was a kid? Did _not_ work.”

There is a soft whirring noise on the other end, as if the payphone is thinking. But just when Martin decides to speak up once more, it carries on.

_“Please repeat: The fog is thick, and endless.”_

Ominous. “T-the fog is thick, and endless.”

_“Please repeat: The fog is thick, and endless.”_

“The fog is thick, and endless.”

_“Please repeat: I cannot see or feel through the fog.”_

Oddly, this all feels like poetry. He, albeit awkwardly, finds himself adapting his usual cadence when reading his own aloud: “I… I cannot see, or feel, through the fog.”

It seems satisfied with this, as the questionnaire carries on: _“Question 4: You have gone out for a walk in your neighbourhood. It is the middle of the afternoon. At the side of the sidewalk, you spot an old, black cat. Do you pet it?”_

“Do I– I, I mean, if it… If it lets me, yeah? Of course!”

_“Question 5: Your significant other is becoming increasingly omniscient. One morning he glances at you, and suddenly possesses the information that, when you were eleven years old, you were thrown a birthday party in which not a single one of your ‘friends’ showed up to. What colour best describes how this makes you feel?”_

This makes Martin choke on his own spit.

“W-What?” He manages to sputter out. One of his worst childhood memories (of which there were a good few dozen) did, in fact, include a birthday in which he sat alone in his living room amidst lacklustre decorations lazily scattered about, glancing at the clock until night fell, waiting for anyone to knock on the door; but he was very, _very_ sure he had never shared that with anyone before. “I– How did you–”

_“It is a thought exercise,”_ the payphone says, simply, as if this is just information it managed to find on Google. _“Your significant other is becoming increasingly omniscient. One morning, he–”_

“Green!” Martin says, shaking his head. “It, it makes me… It makes me feel green, alright?”

_“Question 6,”_ he grits his teeth. Not even a reaction. He’s not sure why this bothers him so much. _“Regarding your relationship with the Archivist, think of your mother. If she were still alive, how do you think she would feel about this?”_

“I… I…” he inhales deeply through his nose. “I mean, I’d like to think she would… be supportive–”

Like clockwork, the voice on the other end interrupts. _“Please consider your answer, Martin.”_

“I-I, I don’t, I don’t–”

With a horrible screeching noise, a small metal platter is extended from the payphone, and on it, he sees a particularly rusty knife, which causes him to instinctively recoil away. 

_“Here is a rusty knife,”_ it says, neutrally, ignoring the way Martin’s heart is beating so loud he is pretty sure it’s getting picked up by the transmitter. _“Would you like to use it to cut off the fingers on your left hand?”_

“F-Fine, fine!” He says, a little too loud. “She would– she would have hated it! She would have refused to speak to me even more than she already did, and it’d just make the whole situation worse, and– and– are you _happy?”_

The platter returns to its place inside the payphone, which seems like enough of a sign of satisfaction to Martin, who rolls his eyes. _“Please repeat: the world has begun its final circuit around the Sun.”_

More of this. Martin sighs, rubbing his temple with his free hand. “... The world has begun its final circuit around the Sun.”

_“Please repeat: the world has begun its final circuit around the Sun.”_

“The world has begun it’s final circuit around the sun.”

_“Please repeat: when it all comes to an end, the fault will fall on our hands.”_

“When it… When it all comes to an end, the fault will fall on our hands.”

_“Question 7,”_ _how much more?_ He almost asks, but bites his tongue, knowing the answer will either not come or be another reminder that he’s free to chop off his fingers if he’d like. _“You are to be taken on a date. Which one of these spots would you prefer to embarrass yourself at: the theatre, the local park, or the fancy restaurant?”_

Pause. “... Define ‘embarrass myself’.”

_“The question is the question. Which one of these spots would you prefer to embarrass yourself at: the theatre, the local park, or the fancy restaurant?”_

He doesn’t feel strongly one way or another, though he does try to put some thought into it. “Uh… Um. Probably… The… Park?”

_“Question 8,”_ no elaboration necessary, he supposes. Good enough for him. _“Do you resent the Archivist for how he treated you when you first met?”_

“Huh? No,” he blinks. After a beat, the payphone doesn’t continue. _Now_ it wants him to explain. “I-I mean, yeah, he was kind of a dick, but it’s been a really… Really long time since then. He’s apologised a lot, too. Like, _a lot._ So–”

_“Question 9: You are in a familiar room. All the portraits on the walls have been turned over. In front of you sits your greatest enemy, completely vulnerable. Which item will you use to exact revenge upon them: the knife, the lighter, or the vial of poison?”_

“...”

He can picture the scene rather well. Elias, Jonah, whatever he should be referring to him as, sitting prone, tied, unable to speak or behold. The room is cold, empty, and he is standing as still as possible, mind reeling, trying to consider his options, his weapon of choice.

_“Please remember: if you lie, it will be known to the system, and we will require you to cut off all of the fingers on your left hand and leave them on the floor of this payphone.”_

He exhales, loudly, annoyed. “I’m– I’m thinking, okay? Let me think.”

_“Time is a precious resource that should not be wasted–”_

“Fine, _fine!”_ Martin huffs. “The lighter.”

There is another moment where it whirs to itself, processes the answer, and Martin begins to feel himself sweat. He’d just picked the first thing that came to mind, given that he couldn’t properly think, but could that be considered a _lie?_

His worries are lifted when the voice returns with yet another ominous Simon Says-like assignment: _“Please repeat: the sky is watching.”_

He can’t help but sigh. Out of relief or annoyance, he isn’t even sure anymore. “The sky is watching.”

_“Please repeat: the sky is watching.”_

“The sky is watching.”

_“Please repeat: The sky is endless and bloody and watching forever.”_

“The sky is endless, and bloody, and watching forever.”

_“Thank you, Martin,”_ He pauses, and realises suddenly that he’s been sweating this entire time. He begins to shrug off his cardigan, being careful to keep the phone at his ear. _“The test has been completed. Now, you will be given a bargain. Within the next week, you will lose something important to you. Do you accept?”_

A small, strained noise escapes his throat. “... Excuse me? Something important– is it, what, like, an object? A _person?_ Because if this is some kind of, of, monkey’s paw business, where you agree to help me protect Jon but then you take him–”

_“This does not involve the Archivist.”_

“Then what _does_ it involve?” He says, growing ever so impatient.

_“The agreement is: within the next week, you will lose something important to you. Do you accept?”_

“That is so– Please, just, what kind of thing? What do you _mean?”_

_“Once again,”_ the voice is still completely neutral in its tone, but, if the thing on the other side is not some sort of non corporeal being, Martin would very much bet it has the shittiest smile on its face. _“Feel free to cut off the fingers on your left hand and leave said fingers on the floor of this payphone, or leave this payphone and become the wholly owned possession of this System.”_

That last sentence causes a chill to go down his spine. He’s pretty sure it hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort until now, but there isn’t really any time to unpack all of it. “Just– Is it an object?”

_“Perhaps.”_

“Great. Cool. Awesome. And it’s not Jon, I guess, but– ugh. Fine. _Fine._ ” 

_“Do you accept the bargain?”_

“Yes!” he hisses, finally.

_“Wonderful. Are you ready for the instructions on how to receive protection?”_

He scrambles for the journal and pen, which he’s left on top of the payphone, but hums, knowing that soon enough, this will all be over. “Yeah, yeah, I… Go.”

_“For this ritual, you must collect two silver lockets. Their monetary or emotional value is of no significance to the ritual. Find the bones of a small bird that has been purposefully killed, therefore not caught off guard by a careless driver, and snap them into pieces that will fit inside the locket. On a small piece of paper, write your deepest secret, and wrap this around the bone piece. Then, submerge the bone in a mixture of saltwater and five drops of your own blood for a night. The moon must not be in its crescent phase for this to work. In the morning, retrieve the bones, and place them into the lockets, and close them tightly. Wear them, or carry them at all times. If the lockets are ever opened, the protection will wear off, and the ritual will have to be repeated.”_

Martin’s pen drifts off the paper. Looking down on what he’s written, he’s pretty sure he’ll have to rewrite all of it later for it to be legible to anyone who isn’t him, but he’s satisfied. He lets go of the breath he’d been holding, and listens to the payphone ding a few musical notes.

“Is that, um… It?” he asks, after a moment of silence.

_“Is there anything else you would like assistance with?”_

Eyes glazing over the instructions once more, he taps the end of his pen to the paper. “Are you– if we do this, how can we be certain that it’s worked? That we’re… Protected?”

_“The Archivist may notice some differences. Having possession of said locket will make you mostly untraceable to the likes of the Eye.”_

“And, and– the others? The hunters, the, the not-Sasha thing, _Daisy–_ ”

_“These will not be concerns to you. Is there anything else you can be helped with?”_

Pressing his lips together, Martin hums, though still feels uneasy. “I… I suppose, no.”

_“Wonderful. Please have a pleasant day. Please do not hesitate to reach out if you have any further requests or needs.”_

He hangs up first, and scuttles out of the booth as soon as he’s gathered his things, and the newly spawned tape recorder on the floor that smugly clicks off as soon as it comes in contact with him. He’s breathing rather heavily as he jogs off, back to the route that’ll take him to the cabin, but he doesn’t stop until he makes it back.

He really hopes he won’t have to reach out ever again.

* * *

(“Saltwater, bones, _blood_ – this is a bit too occultish for my tastes, I think,” Jon says, later, nose turned up as he reads through the instructions. Martin gives him a good shove.)

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> here's a [drawing i made to accompany this fic.](https://skyberia.tumblr.com/post/621952054014984192/wrote-a-fanfic-about-martin-interacting-with) thanks for reading. i love u. look alive out there


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